" This day the powder'd curls and golden

i- ' coat,

Says swelling Crispin, " begg'd a cobbler's

vote."

"This night our Wit," the pert apprentice cries, " Lies at my feet ; I hiss him, and he dies." The great, 'tis true, can charm the electing

tribe ;

The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. Yet, judged by those whose voices ne'er were

sold,

He feels no want of ill-persuading gold ; But, confident of praise, if praise be due, Trusts without fear to merit and to you.

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